The night had gone quiet by the time Shawn returned home, shoulders stiff, head pounding. He expected darkness, silence.
Instead, he found a warm glow in the kitchen—and Naledi.
She stood by the stove in one of his old shirts, barefoot, stirring something in a pot. Naledi looked tired, her curly hair tied in a messy bun, her face soft with weariness. Her belly curved gently forward, six months along now. Her back was to him, hips swaying ever so slightly to the low music humming from her phone. She looked… soft. Calm.
And so much more than he'd let himself see before.
He cleared his throat.
She turned. "Hey," she said, startled but smiling. "I made hangover soup. I thought you might need it."
"You didn't have to," he said gruffly.
She shrugged playfully. "I wanted to. Guess I'm just that kind of girl."
That kind of girl. The kind who gave without asking for anything in return. The kind who stayed up late for someone who didn't deserve her patience.
And for the first time, Shawn really looked at her.
His chest tightened. Something stirred in his gut, then dropped lower. Deeper. The world tilted slightly.
"Naledi?" he murmured.
"Yes?" she blinked. Shawn walked over slightly, each step measured, uncertain if he was making a mistake or walking into something he couldn't undo. Naledi looked up to him, confused but smiling-trusting.
He cupped her face.
Her breath caught.
And just like that, he kissed her.
Naledi gasped, startled, but didn't pull away. The kiss was instinct more than thought. Warm, unexpected. Her fingers curled into his shirt, gripping the fabric as he deepened the kiss. His touch trailed down her sides, cautious around the belly.
He swept her in his arms, soup forgotten, and carried her to their bedroom they shared only in name, until now. The bedroom was dim, moonlight pouring in through the curtains. Shawn laid her gently, his hands brushing a curl around her cheek. Naledi looked at him, eyes wide, lips parted.
"Can I ?" he asked, voice low and hoarse.
She nodded and smiled. "Yes."
Their clothes came off slowly, almost reverently, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her.
There, he touched her with reverence and hunger. Her skin was warm beneath his hands, her body full, curved, glowing with life. He kissed every stretch mark like a prayer, his fingers gentle, his mouth trailing heat across her breasts, her belly, the inside of her thighs.
When he finally entered her, slow and deep, she gasped—a sharp, sweet sound that made him shudder.
She held onto him like she needed him. Like she trusted him. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her head tipped back in pleasure. She moved with him, soft cries filling the room as their bodies met again and again, rhythm building like a wave they were riding together.
"Mine," he growled without thinking.
Her arms tightened around him in answer. Naledi shivered beneath him, her hands threading into his hair, her body rising to meet every thrust with unexpected urgency.
She had never been touched like that before. Her heart beat wildly, caught between disbelief and longing. She felt special. Wanted. Loved, even if he didn't say it.
And for one long, blinding moment, nothing else existed.
But guilt was a cruel thing.
By morning, it had returned like an anchor to his chest.
He sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the floor. His late wife, Melody, memory echoed in his ears. The love they'd shared. The promises he hadn't kept.
What had he done?
When Naledi stirred, her smile was sleepy, soft. Hopeful.
"Shawn…?"
He couldn't look at her.
"I've got things to do," he said, cold, distant.
And then he left.
Naledi sat in the silence he left behind, sheets tangled around her. The ache between her legs was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.
She tried to understand. She wanted to. He was grieving. He'd lost someone. Maybe loving her—even just wanting her—felt like betrayal to him. Maybe last night had stirred something he didn't know how to name.
He's hurting, she reminded herself. People like him break slowly.
But it still hurt.
She avoided everyone that morning. Even Lincoln.
He noticed.
By afternoon, Lincoln found her in the greenhouse, sitting in a chair with one hand on her belly and her gaze fixed somewhere far away.
He didn't say anything. Just sat across from her with a mug of tea, sipping quietly. Letting her know he was there.
And she didn't know why, but him just sitting there, no judgement, just quiet understanding—broke something open inside her. The tears came, and Lincoln let her cry. He didn't push. He didn't pry.
He just held space.
By evening, Naledi felt lighter. Still wounded, but not broken.
She walked down to the dining room with Lincoln, her arm brushing his every now and then as they exchanged quiet, comfortable smiles. His presence didn't demand anything. It just was. Safe.
And as she sat down to eat, laughing softly at something he said, she caught a glimpse of Shawn across the table.
His eyes darkened, locked on the two of them.
But she didn't look away.
She had made a decision.
She would mother her children, Lincoln and the baby that was coming.
She would find her strength again.
But her body? Her heart?
They were no longer his to touch.